


A Dance With Death in the Pale Moonlight

by ElectraRhodes, JonathansNightFlight



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anthropomorphic representations of death, At least one of them is, Death is a sassy git, Forget what the title suggests, Gratuitous, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal meta, M/M, Murder Husbands Big Bang 2017, No Major Character Death, The Pumpkin is People, Will mostly loves Hannibal, a brief history of their time, gratuitous use of Classical myth, of course, seriously, surprisingly cheerful all told
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 01:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathansNightFlight/pseuds/JonathansNightFlight
Summary: Will rolls his eyes, he has frequently had the awful feeling that everyone gets the Death they deserve, no, no, not the means by which they pass from this life, but who does the ushering. So to speak. And his particular Death is a sarky git, who probably, yeah, almost certainly met Beverly Katz at some point in the past and who is channeling her sassy wit during every one of their encounters.In which Hannibal and Will on their fall from the bluff meet Death and Will finally, finally, and some would say about time too, chooses.Murder Husbands Big Bang with art by the incomparable RedEarthRisingAnd, despite the title NO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!





	A Dance With Death in the Pale Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AxmxZ (Boanerges)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boanerges/gifts).



> Huge thanks to the Murder Husbands Big Bange moderator who has shepherded us home.
> 
> And the most enormous and total gratitude to @RedEarthRising on tumblr for both the fantastic art work and cool head in the face of looming deadlines! We’ll both see comments on this work so please feel invited to comment on the art as well as the fic! And go give RedEarthRising a view on tumblr for more amazing painting and drawing.
> 
> AxmxZ originated the concept and phrase of Hannibal ‘pulling the full Medea’ and has generously let me use it here! Thank you so much.

The tenth time Hannibal Lecter met Death he thought it possible that this really and truly might be the end.

"Hello Hannibal. How are you? Perhaps that's an unfortunate question. In the circumstances? Hmm?"

Hannibal had found that Death asked questions to which he already had the answer and yet persisted in finishing most of his sentences, and other's lives, with a little interrogative 'hmmm'. A lilt upwards at the end. Hannibal wondered if Death thought it made him sound whimsical. 

It didn't.

Death's voice had the character of someone used to filling great atriums of space, vast cathedrals of emptiness, the howling empty deserts, the barren becalmed oceans. It was all around, echoing through the bone arena of the skull. Hannibal was mightily bored of it. 

They'd met before of course. Of course. Of course. Nine times in all. And here they are now, ready for another conversation.

Death gestures to the hole in Hannibal's side, "That looks nasty, through and through?"

"As you say. Through and through. Not the worst thing that's happened this evening. And anyway, I saw you then. Not half an hour ago"

"You did. Of course. But I've been around the world and back and forth several times since that shot came through the window. Busy busy, always busy. That's me. Hmm?"

Hannibal smiles a little bleakly. If Death could smile maybe that's what crosses his face,

"Though twice in one night is unusual even for you. Oh. Wait. Not Jack again?"

Hannibal shakes his head, "Not Jack. Not this time. Not directly anyway."

He gets the distinct impression that Death makes some kind of face at that, perhaps distinctions such as he is making matter very little to Death. In the grand scheme of things. For that, in effect is what Death is all about. The grand sweeping majestic scheme of things. Hmm?

................

Will lies on his back, panting, looking up at the sky. Lots of things hurt. Quite badly. His cheek, his shoulder (again, and, fucking hell), his back, his arms, his legs, his head. Shit, maybe a list of what doesn't hurt would be shorter and to the point. He rolls a little on the stony outcrop. Ledge would be generous. Hannibal is there. Looking pained and knocked about. But not dead yet. Will's attention is caught,

"Hello, Will? Can I just say twice in one evening is going some. And I see it's Hannibal. Again. I believe we've had a conversation about him before haven't we? Yes, I think we have."

Will rolls his eyes. He has frequently had the awful feeling that everyone gets the Death they deserve. No, no, not the means by which they pass from this life, but who does the ushering. So to speak. And his particular Death is a sarky git, who probably, yeah, almost certainly met Beverly Katz at some point in the past and who is channeling her sassy wit during every one of their encounters.

Because of course, Will too has met with Death on any number of occasions. Seven times before. If he's got his numbers right. Because even if you thought you were close to death, unless the sarky git reaper actually showed up, you weren't that close. You only thought you were.

"Did he push you? I mean. That would be par for the course wouldn't it? What with your track record and all. And they do say third time's a charm? Don't they?"

"Who's the 'they'?"

"What?"

"You said 'they say', who is the ‘they’?"

"Oh. Right. People. They say. Just. Generally"

"Why is the third time a charm?"

"Will, we've had this discussion before as well. I do the knock out smart Alec remarks and you do the whole 'please please don't let me die I'll make any Faustian pact you like, shit that hurts, why is it my shoulder again?', remember? That's how it goes. Oh hey, if it wasn't Hannibal, was it Chiyoh? I like her, she's got a lot of vim and fizz'

Will just looks at his own personal anthropomorphic realisation of Death and sighs. With any luck Death is just passing through. Will might just need to play for time. Until Ms Vim and Fizz herself shows up. 'Cos damn, she's late (not that kind) already. Where's your pet sniper when you need her, eh?

....................

"Hannibal. You realise this time, it really is it? You've used up your lives"

Hannibal looks hard at Death, enough to make any mortal quake. Death, of course, is mostly immune to such regard. Generally he is the worst that can happen to anyone. Still, no one likes to be actively disliked, so he tries again,

"I'm sorry. I did try and warn you. Last time."

"You'll forgive me if I say I was just a little pre-occupied at the time."

Death grins, ah yes, the great romance of Hannibal's life. Stab hug run. Not always in that order. Hmm? He has a little something to deal with in respect of the great love. But not quite yet. Timing, after all, is everything.

......................

Will’s Death sits beside him on the outcrop.

"I'm feeling sentimental. Indulge me, Willy boy, when did we first meet?"

Will regards Death with a certain degree of suspicion. To be sure, each time he's come that bit too close he's had something of a conversation with the end of all things, but it's usually been in his head, not seated side by side.

"I was a cop. New Orleans. Went to arrest a guy. Tweaker. Stabbed me. Partner shot him."

"Ah, yes. You couldn't shoot him. Kind of you. You know he died don't you?"

"Yeah. I know. Shanked in a prison fight."

"Still. You bought him a little time. Time to mend fences with his dear old ma."

"Did he? That's good, I guess."

"Not really. He got so annoyed with her he hit her upside the head with a two by four bit of board that she hadn't nailed down properly."

"What? Oh. Actual fences?"

"Oh, you thought I meant?"

"I did."

"But I didn't."

"Thanks. I got that now."

"Will, babe, do you think maybe you've spent too much time dwelling in the metaphorical?"

Will looks at Death, a range of responses run through his head. First of all to, 'Babe?’ Are you shitting me? And, 'What me? Dwelling in the metaphorical? Having an actual conversation with Death? You think?' Or something else that runs the spectrum between heavy duty irony and zero amount of fucks left to give.

Death might or might not be looking back at him, fathomless empty eyes that can convey a great abyss, all of time and space caught and spinning. Or they look like the sharp grey death of a shark's eyes. Will had done this once, gone to a big aquarium to look into the eyes of a shark. The endless swimming just to stay alive. The voracious appetite. The even handed death dealing, no sympathy and an endless capacity for carnage. And, having glanced at Hannibal standing beside him, his head tipped to the side, considering, he'd looked at the sharks. A tankful. Relentless. Like Death.

“Yeah. Maybe. It's what we've dealt in really. The abstruse. The non literal. The mythic. The really hard to follow what the fuck it was all about some of the time. You remember the clock business?”

“The drawings? Name, place, time?”

“That's it. Actually I don't remember seeing you during the whole encephalitis hell walk. Or... Do you wear a disguise sometimes?”

“I wasn't the Ravenstag. Or the Wendigo. Or even Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Nor, though I can see it might be a comfort, was I Abigail Hobbs. Or Beverly Katz.”

“I only saw Bev once. Actually you remind me of her.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. It is. And the others, you know about them?”

“The anthropomorphisation of various psycho-emotions throughout your life?”

Death pauses,

“I know them. Intimately. But they are separate from me, perhaps sometimes a path to or away from me?”

Death looks at Will harder, asks,

“I don't remember you always being that way. That first time?”

“It was...I was…different then.”

“Before him and after him?”

“Ahh. So you heard that did you?”

“Eavesdropping. Sorry. Terrible habit.”

“I don't remember seeing you?”

“Wasn't there for you.”

“Oh? Is it better if I don't ask?”

“Yup.”

“I won't then.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They both roll their eyes. Or Death would do if there were eyes in her head to roll. Not just the depths of the abyss.

...................

“So, it might be true to say that we are as blessed as cats.”

“The whole felix, felicity, luck thing?”

Hannibal smiles again,

“What came first, the nine lives or the name?”

Death regards him. He's always had rather a liking for Hannibal. For one thing he keeps him on his toes, will he or won't he, Rolodex or restraint, sounder or flounder? For another, they do have some very interesting metaphysical conversations, so he's sorry it's come to the end. But nothing more certain in life than him. And taxes. And the inevitable missed blog post that would have made all the difference.

“I am sorry. If it's any consolation he does get to live.”

Death waves a hand through the air and, by some kind of supernatural something or other, Hannibal can suddenly see Will, a few years hence with two dogs, a bad facial scar and a look somewhere between lost and alienated from those Hannibal can see around him.

“He does not look happy.”

Death puts his head to one side. His experience of Will is that he is rarely happy. The last time Death saw him, when it wasn't a visit to Will himself, he'd been with a dog being taken to the vet. A merciful end. For the dog. Not for Will. He'd cried unashamedly in the vet’s reception room, then in the surgery, and again on his way out, the now still dog cuddled in his arms. 

A woman had been with him. Death has met her face to face now. Her and her boy. 

With the dog in his arms, Will had walked to his car and had not been aware that the dog, in reality, was now leaping and frolicking with a spectral puppy with soft eyes and floppy ears. Even dogs get the Death they need. He turns back to Hannibal,

“I'm sorry. I can only say he lives, perhaps survives is a better description?”

The image fades and Hannibal cannot decide if he feels worse or better being centred again in this present moment.

“I had hoped, at least, this event might be a source of fuel and transformation for him.”

“You do not think he is transformed? He took decisive action. He was with you at this end.”

“And for that I am grateful. What happens now? Are we done here?”

Death turns once again and as far as Hannibal is concerned, he feels flayed open by the force of his regard.

“I have to say, and this is somewhat outside of the normal run of things, that this is not over yet. I'm afraid we must wait”

“I see. And in this waiting?”

“It's customary to revisit the moments of your life that brought you closest to home.”

“Home?”

“Death is not only a cure or a comfort Hannibal, it is a home for a long, long time.”

“Where do we begin then? Oh. I see. Very well. I was promised a reckoning, it seems this will be it?”

Death conveys a smile,

“Not by him, not this time.” 

He holds out a bony hand, which Hannibal is reluctant to take but knows he must. As he does, so he sees his own hand once again has five fingers and a thumb, and that he is once again a child. Oh gods. There then. If he must.

………………..

 

“Do we really have to do all of this?”

“You know the drill, Will.”

“But I've been over this endlessly. Randall has nothing new to teach me. And frankly I ..”

“It isn't Randall. We talk about this every single time.”

Will’s face twitches a little.

“Tobias never really had a shot with me. I still think that one’s unfair.”

Death regards him, puts her head to one side.

“All right, I accept it was a close run thing. What with the encephalitis and all. But the rules are the rules.”

Will grumbles, “It's not fair really. You say that every time. Why are the rules the rules? Who made them the rules?”

“Humans did.”

Will pauses. Every time he and Death go to it he finds out some new little thing about death, dying, and really the whole living thing too.

“Humans? What rules? Just rules in general? Or the principle of rules? Or what?”

Death shrugs, “Blame Hammurabi.”

Will gawps at her. “You've got to be kidding me! That was, what, I don't even know how many thousands of years ago!”

“And everyone rolled over and went ‘Oh yeah, smite me baby!’”

“They did not.”

“Might have done. How do you know?”

Will sighs and blows out his cheeks a little. Pretty much aware that he is almost certainly the architect of his own personal demise.

“All right. Rules are rules. And don't think I'm not going to hold you to that in a bit.”

If Death had eyes, she'd be narrowing them right this minute. Will Graham, empath, dog aficionado, insect lover, first rate idiot as far as a certain serial killing cannibal is concerned, he’s got that hell-stubborn look on his face. She's seen it before. A number of times in fact. Seven to be precise.

“What?”

He's a little defiant, “Nothing.”

“Tobias Budge, then.”

Will sighs and is transported back into a gloomy basement strung with human intestines. Man, he'd forgotten how bad it smelled. He has a moment to think about intestines and sausage casings and steers sharply away from that particular thought.

…………………..

In a dark, cold basement, Hannibal sees his sister through his childhood eyes. Dragged from him. Rough hands holding him back. Holding him down. A terrible thing. He can't bear to look but can't look away. The scene, the smell, the horrible sense of powerlessness. He made a pact with himself right then and there. To never be that weak again. To never let anyone inside. To never be that vulnerable. He blinks. His adult self pitying the small child he once was, and how long it took before someone did work their way in, whilst he was looking the other way.

Death lays a hand on his shoulder, Hannibal works hard to resist shrugging it off.

“We've seen this enough times, Hannibal. It's the rules, you understand? But, well, I try not to be cruel.”

Hannibal looks at Death, “I understand a little better now.”

Death raises his occipital bones and zygomatic arches, if such a thing were possible.

“Yes? Really? We find most don't, you know. But you've always been interesting?”

Hannibal huffs a small laugh, “I always said I happened. To make me who I am. Now though? Some one else has happened to me. And the result? Well. Here we are.”

Death nods, “Here we are. You're not giving up yet, are you?”

Hannibal twitches his head to one side, “Does it amuse you to protract these things?”

“Amuse me? Oh no. Not at all. Really, you could do this all by yourself. I'm just here to provide...”

“What?”

“Some focus.”

…………………….

Will scrabbles a little with his feet against the outcrop. Gods how his face hurts. And his shoulder. There's blood clotting in his mouth and he feels weak to the point of death. Ahh. Well. Yes. That is the point after all. The very point. He thinks again of Tobias. As he remembers it, what he most feared was that Tobias would kill, had killed Hannibal.

And, oh boy, does he get the irony of that now. But he can remember the look on Hannibal's face when he walked into his office still upright, still alive, still not dead. He'd wondered then. Damn it. If only he'd said something, done something, rather than simply smile back? He looks at Death.

“Would it have made a difference?”

She reaches out and were it not for the fact that's she's really only a spectral being from another dimension, she'd pat his hand or shoulder. As Hannibal had done.

“It might have. It might not have. Hard to tell now.”

Will nods to himself,

“I thought you might be able to tell. If you looked forwards from back then?”

She smiles, or at least, he thinks she does.

“Back then? Well. I'm only allowed to let you know what you already know. Or help you see it a little more clearly.”

“I don't really remember what we talked about then.”

“I know. It fades. Gradually. I'm sorry. It'd be useful if you did, I know.”

“I did always wonder if there was a chance that I might have died from the encephalitis?”

She smiles at him again, “Sorry. No.”

He slumps a little,

“I don't know if that's worse or better. He wouldn't have let it go so far then?”

“He didn't enjoy it one little bit when you ended up in the BSHCI”

Will thinks back to it, how sorry and sad Hannibal had looked. How regretful. How much of a lying shit murder punk bastard he'd been. How Hannibal had slept with Alana, killed Beverly, killed the Judge. He sighs.

“I remember.”

“Objectively speaking, he worked very hard to get you out again. And get your attention too.”

Will nods. This is one of the things that has always bugged him. The Chesapeake Ripper could have carried on quietly killing his sounders of three, probably for years, if only he hadn't decided to get all up in Will’s grill. 

“Is this like when little boys pull the hair of little girls and their teacher says ‘it's because he likes you?’ Because, frankly, that's a pretty terrible model of relationships?”

Death shrugs, Will thinks she might actually be blowing a bubble,

“Are you chewing gum?”

“What? Yeah. Passes the time. These new varieties? Keep their flavour for ages. I can…” 

She catches Will’s eye, “Too disrespectful? Really?”

“You think?”

She looks around as though for a suitable receptacle, ends up spitting it over the edge, down into the Chesapeake Bay.

“Really is a long way down, isn't it?”

“It is. And you didn't answer my question.”

“Bad model of relationships? Yeah, well, like I said, I didn't make the rules. And he didn't exactly pull your hair”

Will rolls his eyes so hard it's a wonder they don't head off over the edge of the outcrop all on their own.

………………….

“You should have poisoned him. Hmm?”

“I'll say it to you as I said it to him, ‘I wouldn't do that to the food’.

“All the same. You know that statue had a twisted antler after?”

Hannibal frowns, “The statue? Of the bull elk? I didn't know you cared?”

His Death shrugs, “I wasn't especially fond of Mr Budge.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows at him, Death shuffles a little, “He was rude.”

Hannibal starts a small smile then, which gradually widens. Death does a small snarl, “Yes, yes. All right. It does work both ways. I rub off on you, you rub off on me.”

“I think you do more than rub off on me don't you?”

Death makes a small dismissive gesture, “It's a nice evening for it.”

“Something of a change of subject?”

“Well. We're getting onto Jack and I know he really gets your goat.”

“I still think of Agent Crawford as my friend.”

“Yes. I know. I don't think that's entirely mutual you know.”

“Despite his wife?”

“Maybe especially because of his wife.”

“And do you feel usurped too?”

“Not really, Hannibal. I'm kind of used to you playing God. Or at least, as near as you'd ever get, in this life.”

“So in another life…?”

“Hannibal.”

There's a warning note in Death’s voice and Hannibal reflects that just for once he is not the lion in the room.

“All right then? Jack it is.”

If Death could show sympathy, he might. He was busy that night in Baltimore. Lives in the balance. Five of them. Tipping first one way, and then the other. He'd felt sure he'd take Hannibal home then. That he'd lose all his lives one after the other, like dominoes flicked over and cascading away in a pattern that showed only a pretty image and then done. 

Not like a gif forever righting itself to begin again. But something with an ending. A finish. The ultimate conclusion. He can still recall the empty clicks of the woman's gun, the desperate whimpers from the floor as Will tried to reach the girl and save her, even if it cost his life. Again. For the first time. And Jack. In the pantry, reaching out to his wife, already so close to her final last breaths.

He thinks fondly of Bella Crawford. In the end she'd wanted to embrace Death as a friend, seen him as a home, as a cure for all that ailed her. Still. Not Hannibal's job after all. Though he'd tried.

“Jack Crawford. He came close Hannibal. Twice. And what he pushed you to, both times?”

Hannibal says nothing. Both times Jack had almost killed him he'd retaliated by lashing out at Will. He's not proud of it. Will had always been the scapegoat between the two of them. Used by Jack. Which Hannibal resented. Used by Hannibal. Which Jack feared. 

Really, it’s been an ongoing game between the two of them with Will pushed first one way and then the other. Overcome by his own empathy, and indecision. And maybe? Well. Maybe love too? Though it's taken him long enough. 

Hannibal looks at Death, and quietly asks, “Anything new then? Apart from how Jack has, once again, brought Will almost to an end?”

“And you did warn him?”

Hannibal thinks of his letter. Wonders if Will ever read it, or if he burnt it first. Wonders too that Will came back anyway. For the families? For his family? For Jack? Or for Hannibal? Perhaps he has an answer now? Of a kind? Gods. Still. It was worth it. Damn it. At least when you face Death you know you've lived.

“Yes, I warned him. But Jack's persuasive.”

“So are you, Hannibal.”

…………………..

“Please. I'm begging you. Not Randall Tier. I just can't.”

Death squints at him, the sun has almost gone completely. Of course it doesn't really make a difference to her, but she knows his defences are low right now.

“Just a nod then? He would have killed you if he'd had the chance.”

“Are you saying I should thank Hannibal then?”

“I don't know? Do you think so?”

“We say this every damn time. I still don't know.”

“It's why you’ve nine lives.”

Will frowns, “What? To make sense of it all? Dammit. All right then. Yes. I am grateful. If I'd died then. Well. Shit. I don't know.”

He puts his head in his hands and winces. Whatever happens after tonight he's going to have one hell of a scar across his face. Not as badly off as Frederick and, fuck, he steers away from that thought as fast as he can. And at what Jack had told him Hannibal had done. Seriously? Ugh. Sometimes! And God. Come on Chiyoh. 

He looks at Hannibal, face greying, even in this darkness Will thinks he can see the life slipping out of him. Tentatively he reaches out a hand, “Hannibal? Hang on? Ok? Hang on. Chiyoh is coming, ok? She's coming. She better be.”

He makes an effort then. Pulls off his own shirt and holds one sleeve between his bad arm and his chest and rips. Pulls off his own belt. Makes makeshift pads. Slowly, gritting his teeth and then wincing against the pain he manages to push Hannibal’s pullover and shirt up. 

Fuck. What a mess. Hardly knowing if he can make it any worse he puts pressure on the exit wound. Struggles the belt around Hannibal's mid section, holds the pads in place, one at the front and one at the rear. Thinks about praying. Turns to look at Death instead.

“Is he going to die?”

“What do you think?”

Will looks back at Hannibal again, considers all the horror of the last five years. The misery. The pain. Everything he wants and hates in equal measure.

“I think. If I can make that call then he's going to live. I've been through too much not to finally get my way.”

Death puts her head to one side, “Have you been listening to Chiyoh?”

“Didn't you hear what I said? The whole pull the girl’s pigtails? It's shit. Really shit. If he won't take the other means of influence? Well hell. But I'm damned if I'm not going to try that. With him. He better live.”

She nods, “Even after Baltimore?”

“Yes. Even after Baltimore.”

She nods again, holds out her hand. He sighs, thinking of the hand he’d held out that night, reaching, failing. Again. Always again.

………………….

Hannibal is still looking out over the Bay. Death clicks his fingers, “We're still on Jack you know?”

“Florence? Actually I enjoyed Florence. Well. Mostly.”

“You did have fun with Bedelia.”

“I enjoyed the dancing.”

“And the showing off? Hmm?”

Hannibal smirks a little. It had been a lot of fun, the curly haired boy with the scarf, that other pompous poet, his wife, the sanctimonious professor, the stupid policeman. He smiles happily to himself.

“You were very busy. Doesn’t matter what you said to Bedelia. Have you thought about what will happen with her now?”

“I imagine Will might have things he wants to say to her”

“Bluebeard’s wives? A last supper?”

Hannibal glances sharply at him, “Really? Is that what Will’s got in mind?”

A smile twitches on Death’s face, maybe. “It's possible. Have you noticed what he's done?”

Hannibal glances down at his barely conscious, barely alive self. Will’s managed to use his shirt as makeshift pads, held in place by his belt. He looks at Death.

“He’ll get cold. He's probably already in shock.”

“Yes. But he's also, well, you'll see.”

“What's he trying to do?”

“What's he trying to do? He's trying to save you.”

Hannibal looks at him. “I don't understand?”

Death looks back, something moving in his eyes, worlds and galaxies and the whole of existence, and, perhaps more importantly, its meaning,

“Try.”

………………………

“Yes, I know.”

“If it's any consolation, which I'm pretty sure it isn't, I know it's hard.”

Will sighs. Really, if he'd thought about it at all sensibly at the time, he'd have known something of the sort was in the offing. The devoted, besotted, adoring, well, everything? God, it had been tempting. And sure, Will accepts fully the part he played in that terrible, terrible night. Hannibal finally pulling the full Medea on him.

In truth, Will had always known that Hannibal basically lived his life by the rules of Epicurus and Homer. Mostly Homer. All Bronze Age epic revenge, and get your retaliation in first. And to be sure, the signs had all been there. He'd even noted it at the time: ‘You don't want me to have anything in my life that isn't you’. Not the idea of a child, not even an actual child. When that was all that was left to take from Will, apart from his life, Hannibal took it. And took another life too. One of them.

Sure, it wasn't a good life, not a happy one, not perfect, but it was the one he'd been living at the time. A whole life used up and spilling across the Baltimore kitchen floor. He'd felt its loss keenly. With Bev dead, with Alana fucked, in more ways than one, and only a daughter left to give. As though one of Will’s lives wasn't enough. Poor though it was.

He looks at Death,

“All right then, can we make it quick? Please?”

It's a terrible impression of breath, and blood, and steel. Relentless. Merciless. The feathered Stag dying too. He'd missed it after. His own hart. He wonders briefly what it would have taken for Hannibal to actually, finally kill him that night? Because surely he must have also known about the whole life and death business. He traded in it so often. Will considers what he'd said to his ghostly daughter as they sat in the kitchen, on the boat, and later in the Norman chapel in Palermo. All the things they'd said. Where her last life had slipped away.

He sighs again at the memory, the last of the Shrike’s victims after all, saved and then unsaved at Hannibal's hand. A life. A little life. She only had to lose it once to him. Her father took the other lives, when he didn't take hers. Will wonders too about what happened in those few weeks. Twelve weeks? Thirteen? More. Between the life she didn't lose to him, and the one, and he winces at the thought, the one she did.

Really, if Death is to be believed, (and is there ever any reason for Death to lie?) she died in her father's kitchen. And not in Hannibal's. That time? All borrowed? It's why it seems still so unreal. Not just the encephalitis then.

And Hannibal hadn't left him to die. That's what they'd concluded. He'd wanted him to live. And didn't the next few years show just how much? God. Will thinks of all the Greek myths he's read up on since then. Orpheus and Eurydice, Zeus and every fucking thing in a skirt, male or female, given the fashions of the time, Hades and Persephone. 

And damn, if he isn't always Persephone whichever way he tells that particular story. But there has to be something better than Medea? Or Electra? Or even Oedipus? Surely? Even Patroclus is remembered mainly because he sodding died. All sacrificed in Achilles armour. Will thinks about that for a bit. Why, oh why does he always have to be the bloody sacrificial lamb. The very bloody sacrificial lamb.

He feels the tender bit inside his mouth, still oozing. Man, that's going to scar badly.

And. Oh. Oh. For fucking, fucks sake!

Is that what Prison was all about?

Oh yes, Hannibal. Very good. Fucking Penelope. Waiting. Like a good murder wife. Will has a little snarl to himself. At least in this telling he gets not to be the girl! He smirks then. Freddie would be so pissed she missed it. Will be pissed. Was pissed. One of those.

So. If Hannibal is Penelope? He groans to himself, that means Molly is Calypso and Will has been dallying in her cave just a little too long and damply. He does another big sigh, enough to wake the dead. Well, maybe not. Or. Well. That's some shit het sex imagery right there. And really Molly deserves better. Even if she won't get it. So who the fuck is Jack then? Or Alana? Is Margot, Telemachus? Or the old guy he can't remember the name of that recognises him despite his disguise? And the Dragon?

Oh. And oh, again. And oh, fuck it.

The Dragon is the sodding Trojan Horse. Of fucking course he is.

Will does the whole sighing thing again. Really he's boring himself now. Surely, he's done the whole ten year sail or return business? Surely? He's met every task, every monster, every challenge head on? Hasn't he? He looks at Death again,

“Odysseus? Really?”

Death looks beyond delighted.

“Oooh, you got it. That's fantastic. We've had a bet going on. I thought you'd get it. You know. Before the end.”

Will holds up a hand,

“When you say ‘we’ve had a bet’, who's the ‘we’ in this scenario?”

Death looks a bit embarrassed which, Will reflects, can't be a terribly common occurrence,

“Ahh, yes, that's a bit complicated.”

Will eyes her, “I'm pretty sure I've got as long as it takes. Come on.”

Death twitches her nose, flicks her hair a little. Whole galaxies tremble. Definitely Bev.

“Jack’s Death, Hannibal's Death, Mason Verger’s, one or two others. You know. In the mix.”

Will faintly echoes, “In the mix? Is that even a…what's the collective noun for a bunch of Deaths? A grim? A funeral? Oh, how about a reaping?”

“If you like.”

Will frowns, “So, what, you go out together do you, hang out, take bets, compare notes?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. Like I say, if you like? Maybe there's comfort in a gathered Death?”

Will is impressed, almost despite himself. A gathered Death? Sounds pretty awesome really. That kind of awesome, not the other millennial kind. He thinks about that for a moment. OK. The other millennial kind.

“If I like? This isn't really about what I like any more, is it? There's an awful lot of inevitability going on here, isn't there?”

She nods shortly, “Bone-saw time?”

“Yeah” Will grumbles, “bone-saw time.”

……………………

“Yes, yes, yes, and no.”

“Hmmmm?”

Hannibal ticks the remarks off against his fingers,

“Yes, I might well have killed him. Yes, I would have regretted it. Yes, I'm moderately grateful to Mason Verger. And no, I remain utterly unrepentant about the things that happened at Muskrat Farm.”

“I thought you threw your back out. You know. After? You should have carried him over your shoulder.”

Hannibal says nothing. Death tries to nibble on his bottom lip before recalling he doesn't have one to nibble at.

“Doesn't the brand itch?”

“A trifle.”

“And the humiliation?”

“I choose not to see it that way.”

“And the bargain?”

“I always intended to save Will. One way. Or another. I still intend to deliver on my end of it.”

Death shakes his head, “Gods, Hannibal, you are ever the optimist. So, anything new to glean from the whole experience then?”

Hannibal thinks of it, remembering all the threads that spooled out from there and then retracted. The tea cup smashed, seemingly beyond repair. 

Slowly he says, “I believe I have done penance for it.”

Death nods briskly, “It's a persuasive sell. Is that what you'll tell him?”

Hannibal shrugs minutely, “Perhaps. Just how much Will sees is not always clear to me. Even now.”

“Even right now?”

Hannibal looks at himself. If possible he's slightly further from himself than before. He blinks at it. Oh. It really is like that Blake picture. He's tethered to himself by only the faintest line of, what, a soul?

“Will, then? Is he my end?”

Death smiles, “I know it felt like he was then.”

Hannibal holds up a hand, winces as he recalls the hand Will pressed against the glass of his cell in the BSHCI. God. From the moment Will woke up back in the house in Wolf Trap with Hannibal sat by his side, hoping against hope that even if time did not reverse then something of the pain and anguish might, all the way through to...

Terrible.

It had almost killed him.

And it has been the most painful, slow, eviscerating death. He might have gutted Will in a single terrible slicing anger. But Will had gutted him every single day. He can't even think the words. Those terrible terrible words. And how right he'd been. He gave himself up because Will rejected him. And now? Now Will has come back. And as he said, he may be a fool, but he's Hannibal's fool. Hannibal smiles a little. It had taken a big effort not to react at the time. But how the heat from it had seared across his own kidneys.

He smiles at Death, “So, he didn't kill me back then. Did he hope the State might do it for him?”

“I don't know. What do you think?”

“I really couldn't say. I thought the trial both expensive and costly.”

Death looks at him, “Oh Hannibal. That's a fine distinction.”

“Isn't it.”

Hannibal does his very best smug face. Which, Death has to admit, is one of the finest he's ever seen. Mainly because, well, frankly, people tend not to look that smug in the face of Death.

……………………

“He'd have regretted it.”

“I know.”

“He was glad he hadn't.”

“Yes.”

“It was mainly down to Jack.”

“I know that too.”

“So?”

“It fucking hurt. And I'd just been shot. Again.”

“Well, not to side with anyone, but you might have been about to kill him.”

Will looks at Death, “I'm 90% certain you know that's not the case. If anyone would know, you would.”

Death makes a small face, “Well shit. No one ever calls us on these things. Yeah. Alright. Not even a blip on our radar. Wasn't even notified. Nope. I'd been there earlier. Of course. For Jack's second go. Oh, and for Pazzi.”

Will thinks of the policeman. For all that he'd resented him, bowels out was not a pretty way to go on any palazzo, let alone where the same thing happened to your own conniving betraying bastard ancestor.

“It still hurts.”

Death coughs “Three years.”

Will narrows his eyes, “Honestly? Three years? Is that what you're going with?”

Death has the temerity to grin, before she nods her head vigorously.

“It nearly killed him.”

“You know I’m gonna say what I said last time?”

Death pauses, “Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok then. Moving on.”

“Wait? What? That's it? No remonstrations?”

“I don't think so. We've been over it and well, you know. Time waits for no one.”

Will side eyes her, “I'm pretty sure you're the exception to that rule.”

“Oh, I'm not subject to time.”

“There you are then.”

“I am time. It's why they say people are late, after they’ve met me.”

Will puts his head in his hands, “I'd like to think the puns might be somewhere behind me now.”

She grins at him, “Nope. Not a chance.”

“What's next? Muskrat Farm?”

“As I live and breathe.”

“But you don't.”

“Will? Really? So literal!”

………………………

Hannibal looks over the shoulder of the foreperson in his trial, “What are they doing?”

“Debating whether the death penalty should be on the table or not.”

“But I didn't plead insanity.”

“Which instantly made you look insane.”

“Byron didn't say.”

“Why would he? Great trial strategy.”

“Frederick perjured himself.”

“I know. Look how that turned out for him.”

“How many has he got left?”

“Frederick? How many do you think?”

“Well, me, Miriam, Abel, Jack, Will? The Red Dragon. So maybe another three?”

“Actually, you twice.”

“Really? How so?”

“That time you fed him people after he lost the kidney to Abel?”

“Oh yes?”

“Nearly did for him. Terribly taxing on his system.”

“That wasn't actually intentional.”

“I know, I know. You wouldn't do that to the food.”

Hannibal sniffs, “I've never been shy about claiming my kills.”

Death pats him benevolently. When his ghostly, bony fingers pass through Hannibal's arm he rather wishes Death hadn't. Ice wouldn't even begin to do it justice. But also terrible scorching, parching heat. He shudders. That might actually be him dying a little more. Further cells giving up the ghost. So to speak.

“Two left then.”

“Two left.”

“He's better off than me.”

Death regards him some, “I can't believe you mean that!”

Hannibal shrugs, dismissing Frederick in life or death, with a degree of equanimity many of his colleagues would envy, might have envied, probably do still.

“What’s that?”

Hannibal gestures back to the jury decision room. All institutional carpet and depressing lighting.

“They've decided it's off the table. Because they've decided you're insane. Can't execute someone guilty by reason of insanity. Guilt implies informed and sane consent to their own action.”

“Alana congratulated me.”

“Alana’s done a lot of things she regrets.”

Hannibal smiles to himself. She hasn't, not enough, not yet, but she will. Probably. Depending on how the rest of this evening turns out. He struggles with himself a little and watches Will once more.

“He's tired now.”

“He is. Chiyoh’s coming, though.”

“Is she?”

“He did have a plan.”

“This is the plan?”

“I didn't say it was an especially good one.”

…………………….

 

“What do you remember about Muskrat Farm?”

“I've told you. Well. I've told everyone. At the trial.”

“I know what you said, under oath, mind you. But what do you actually remember?”

“Really? I remember four things. Five, if you count the flannel shirt and everything. And that's it. The rest is all kind of cobbled together.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yeah, all right. Freddie told me some of it. Some of it I kind of inferred. I know what he's like.”

“I think that's reasonably true. So, four things, I know about the shirt.”

Will frowns, but decides to let it pass. He honestly doesn't need to dwell on the whole shirt naked greedy gorgeous hands hot damn incident. Instead he mentally ticks them off as he goes.

“One, how pissed I was when Hannibal tried to have a conversation when we were brought back from Italy, upside down, in some fucking air transporter. God, I had such a headache. I'm surprised you weren't there then!”

“Technically that was still the whole bone-saw incident. It'd have been that that killed you, slow seepage and all, the whole upside down thing. Gravity is rarely on your side Will.”

“Fucking ace. OK. Second thing. Mason maundering on so much that I bit that shit Cordell just to get him to shut up.”

“Ahh, yes. That didn't come up in the trial.”

“Of course it didn't, he'd lost his whole face by then!”

“Third?”

“Hannibal rescuing me and then bitching about how heavy I was, endlessly. Fucking stupid bridal style.”

“He did put his back out.”

“Did he? Idiot. He didn't say.”

“Just chose to suffer in silence.”

Will grimaces, yeah, yeah maybe.

“And the fourth thing?”

“How great it felt for about five minutes to tell Hannibal to fuck right off and for him to actually go and there was no knife or anything.”

Death doesn't say anything,

“What? No one got stabbed.”

“And how was it after the five minutes?”

Will mutters, “You know how it was.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“For the book?”

“For the book. We've got a new recording angel, uses digital speech recognition.”

“How's that working out?”

“Like it did for you.”

“Terrible?”

Death nods, “Utterly.”

………………………….

“I'm a fan of Blake’s”

“Really? Me too.”

“Doesn't surprise me. You’ve his aesthetic.”

Death sighs, “Annoying about the painting”

“I thought that.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really.”

“Will did have his moment. What with the wine and all.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Of course. Didn't last long did it?”

“It didn't.”

In the air, Death conjures an image of the Great Red Dragon, bloodied and black in the moonlight. He rips his head to one side, perhaps an unconscious echo of Hannibal's usual head tilt,

“Looks rather pretty now.”

“Good. I can't help thinking Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller are going to have a field day with that recording and the trace left on the cliff top.”

“I think we can safely say that's true. Nothing more? No grand soliloquy on the ultimate meaning of me, and blood, and radiant transformations, all that good stuff?”

“The meaning of life is you?”

Death sighs happily, “I'll admit a certain narcissistic glee at that. Nothing more?”

“I don't think so. I think I'm saving it.”

“Just in case?”

“As you say.”

………………………..

“Why did you come back?”

“Jack asked me.”

“Try again.”

“Molly told me to.”

“Nuh, uh.”

“I saw the pictures.”

“Nope.”

“I kinda wanted to see Alana.”

“Nice try.”

“Hannibal told me not to.”

Death looks hard at Will, her eyes boring thought his skull, or possibly, he reflects, just boring. Really, can't this just be done?

“And there we have it.”

“You're really trying my patience.”

“I bet you say that to all the anthropomorphic realisations of your sub-conscious and society’s tropes for abstract concepts that are ultimately terrifying.”

Will is speechless for a moment, “…………”

“I thought so.”

“It was also the name.”

“The name? The Dragon? Really?”

“Just so fucking pretentious. It's bad enough when it's down to the tabloids or Freddie or someone. But he chose his own goddam grandiloquent name and the press just lapped it up.”

“Better than the ‘tooth fairy’.”

“God, the whole monster under the bed thing? Ugh.”

“Worked, though? In your favour.”

“I know. Shame about the picture. And Reba McClane. I liked her.”

“Would it help if I told you that she's got five more lives left, thanks to you.”

Will brightens considerably, “Really? That's great. It does actually.”

He sighs then, “Don't tell me about any of the others who I've caused to lose any of theirs, okay?”

“Of course not.”

“That means there are some, then? Not just Abigail. Or Bev. Or Alana.”

Death smiles somewhat desperately, “Nice evening, isn't it? He's not dead yet, either. Well done.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

They look at where Hannibal lies, still clinging to the ledge, and to life. Just. One possibly slightly more than the other.

“That painting was rather fine.”

“Beautiful.”

“Like you said…”

“I know what I said.”

Neither of them say it, though they're both thinking it…and what he did.

…………………

As soon as they are moving Will thinks that maybe this is just possibly the biggest mistake he’s made over the last few years. Except for, well, that, and that, oh, and that. Maybe. He looks sardonically at Death. She’s smiling at herself, just in passing. And there is a sentence Will never thought he’d hear him self even think in either this life time, of the next, or indeed any, except, given his history, maybe he has, you know, before.

“How does this work then?”

“It's fast, hardly time to even register it. Because any second you’ll…”

There's the thud and scrabble of an impact, as both Will and Hannibal hit the ledge just a little below the eroding bluff.

“See? You could've gone all the way. The drop would kill you. Or him. Almost certainly him. Instead.”

“Fucking great. That really hurt!”

She says nothing.

“Yeah all right, the alternative would be worse. I've got it. Was that really a whole life?"

“Have you seen how far down it is?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And the rocks!"

“Okay.”

“And the bit that sticks out!”

“Yeah, okay! “

"The sharks.”

“What?”

“There could be. No really, you know! Maybe."

Will rolls his eyes. He then wishes he hadn't. As now he can add extreme nausea to his current list of complaints.

"He's going to be so pissed."

Death puts her head to one side, "What? Dying in the arms of the man he loves? After said man threw them both off a cliff in some grand romantic gesture, redolent of...”

Will interrupts hastily, “Oh my God. Enough already. I'm begging you. I'll never hear the end of it!”

Death grins. Sure it's a rictus and really the only expression she can make, being a skull and all. ‘Death’s-head’ really meaning something as far as job descriptions go, it seems.

“Wanna know what happens next?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Oh boy, oh boy, Will babe, oh boy, do you have a choice! The ultimate choice.”

Will raises both eyebrows. That sounds singularly unlikely, given his past history. All of his past history. He can't think of a single bit where it ever felt like it was one hundred percent his choice. Even that fatal moment? The most recent one. 

He thinks about what Bedelia had said, “Has he ever told you to kill someone? No. He will. And when he does, it will be someone you love, and you will think you don't have a choice.”

And just maybe. That had come back to bite Hannibal in the arse. Hard. He wiggles a bit. Yeah, allright then. Choices?

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, Willy boy. Really.”

………………………

Hannibal barely registers that it is Will who pulls them closer. Finally, finally. Finally. Never mind the gun shot, never mind the concussion, never mind the dragging, terrible, heart-rending pain that courses through him. Never, never, never, mind.

Will leans his head against his chest and it's everything and better than he'd ever hoped for, longed for. And that Will is here, willingly. Had orchestrated it, even. At last.

“It's all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

He hardly hears Will’s response. Too busy savouring the moment, enjoying it. He closes his eyes, rubs his cheek against Will’s hair. This too? Finally? He barely registers Will’s shift, and then, their collective weight toppling them. He barely registers it and even if he did he'd barely resist. Oh, maybe just a token show, just to demonstrate that finally (again with the finally) he's giving in, too. Making his own choices.

Moments later he opens his eyes again. He jerks back slightly. Death’s smile is a damn sight too close to his face for comfort. Ah. So, Will really was the ending of him after all. He'd wondered, perhaps even hoped, that he might be. He blinks, “I'm missing something, aren't I?”

If Death could smile, Death is smiling right now. Hannibal is beyond irritated, that doesn't usually go well, “So?”

“For goodness sake, Hannibal, be a little patient. I know it's not your strongest suit.”

Death hears Hannibal mutter something about “three uncomfortable years”, “prison onesie”, “when he finds that barber”, and “Alana Bloom isn't a quitter, but shes certainly bitter”, he rolls his own orbs of infinity.

“Stop it, Hannibal. Will is deciding. He's making a choice.”

“Yes? All right? You have my interest? A choice, an actual choice?”

“Yes. You could say the choice of your life.”

“Don't you mean…”

…………………..

Will pants a little.

“All right, all right. I give in. Really. And. Fuck, I've lost count. What was that?”

Death does a little jig, which frankly, Will thinks, is highly inappropriate.

“Oh, it's exciting, really. You’ve used eight. You’ve got one left.”

“Yeah? One spare? Or one that I'm rapidly using up right now?”

Death clicks her fingers, not hard to do. In the air beside her head a small, ghostly power meter appears, like on a phone, showing how much charge there is left.

“Nope. You’re good. Still fully charged. You'll make it through for sure. Maybe a few things to remember it by.”

Will sighs, thinks of his cheek, his shoulder, maybe a couple of ribs have gone, the short circuit of his collar bone, saving his humerus, and no, not funny in the slightest.

“God forbid I should come out of it unscathed. Wait, I thought, didn't you have an hour glass thing before?”

“What? Oh, the life-timers. Yeah, well, gotta move with the times, you know. Millennials don't know what the fuck they are. Goddam avocados. Yeah. Don't say a word. We're always a bit…I was going to say ‘l8’”

“Please don't.”

Death smirks again. Really, Hannibal is right. If Will relaxed with himself, worried less, he could be a lot of fun, have a lot of fun even.

“So. Final life. What you gonna do with it?”

“And Hannibal?”

“Ah. Sorry. That was his last.”

“His actual last? I'm his end?”

“Well, you know. In his end is his beginning and all that.”

Will pauses, looks down at Hannibal again. Dammit. Whatever he'd intended, and even now he's not one hundred percent sure, it wasn't this. Together? Yes. Even Hannibal surviving and Will finding a final cold, quiet resting place tumbled by the tides. But not him, not him alone. Unhappy murder husband.

He thinks briefly of Molly again, even with her soft seriousness he'd still been alone. Losing all the things that had made him who he was. And yes. Including Hannibal. And the fishing. Maybe mostly Hannibal. And hasn't he run back? Despite the warning. Because of the warning. Hannibal had only to crook his little finger and he'd come. 

Will’s surprised by the shot of hot lust that that image invokes. Damn. Always so close and never consummated. Everything else had been between them. Nakama, Chiyoh had called them, better than Freddie’s murder husbands, thought that does have a certain ring to it. He glances down at his wedding ring. He'd thought, faintly maybe, at one time, well. Probably too late for all that. But so close. So, maybe?

He looks Death squarely in the face, “What do I have to do?”

Death stops her little dance, pulling herself back from the world that is solely her own. All of time, all of space, all of everything, in one moment and one place.

“Huh?”

So profound, he thinks. “I've got one life left. One spare. Can I choose how to use it?”

“Well, sure. Duh. That's the whole point of free will. Sorry. Not a pun. This time”

“Free will?”

“Your life, your choices.”

He ruminates a moment.

“Free will. Ok. What about free Will?”

“What?”

“If I'm free, and it's the rules, as you said, and I can control my own life, well then, I choose to give it to Hannibal.”

She pauses again, “Errr.”

“Earlier. You said ‘humans make the rules’ you said. Didn't you?”

He sounds little more urgent now.

“Well. Yeah. But.”

“Honestly? Haven't I always kept to the rules? Even when it was frankly worse than shit for me to do so?”

She waggles her head. 

“Well, yeah.”

“So I'm keeping them now. Free Will you said. My life. My choice.”

Slowly, slowly, and worlds come and go in the time it takes, Death nods, “I think that might be possible. I'll have to check.”

…………………

Up above the two men, at the top of the cliff, a car draws up. The headlights darkened, despite the lateness of the hour. A car door shuts quietly. A small torch clicks on.

Chiyoh makes her way carefully to the house. Once there, she puts little paper booties over her own shoes. Keeping it clean, forensically. None of this looks good. 

Inside, she finds the shattered window, the blood pooling dark beside the piano. The camera, run its course, its green light blinking. She's careful not to touch anything. 

Out on the patio she finds the Dragon. Even she can see his aesthetic appeal, his bloody wings spreading dark. Leaking light and life. No sign of Hannibal or Will. 

She looks over at the edge of the cliff. Maybe he managed it then? She carefully picks her way round the scattered blood drops and spills. Not so good. She finds a bloodied axe, a knife. She leaves both well alone. He's done as he promised then? Thus far. Taking a careful stance she looks over the edge.

Below her, on the stony outcrop she and Will scouted just a week ago, she can see the two men. Hannibal lying prone, Will scrunched up beside him. It wouldn't take much to tip Hannibal over. For both of them just to slide to oblivion and the teeth-filled sea below. She wants to shout. Something. Anything. To stay Will’s hand if he needs the discouragement. She watches him dip his head over Hannibal's. Is he? Kissing him? She thinks it's possible. She rolls her own eyes then. Both of them will be insufferable if this is how it will go.

She looks round urgently for the path. She's not too late. It doesn't occur to her that she even could be. She's never late. Never. Except. Well. She won't think about that. She finds the top of the path and scrambles down it. Just a rocky, slithering, terrifying slide of gravel and grabbed-grass handholds.

She takes a deep breath. Will seems glazed, “Is he alive?”

“What? Yeah. Just. I think Death is considering the options.”

Chiyoh squints at him. Will Graham has always been a little odd. And more than a little unpredictable. Chiyoh, too, has had her own encounters with Death. Surprisingly few though, and despite what you might think about firefly man, not for a long time. Something, though, stirs in her memory.

“Yes? What will you do?”

Will looks over her shoulder, to where Death hovers, smiling sweetly, waiting, with a faint clicking sound. Will wonders what it is like to walk around with your own maraca accompaniment all the time. To be percussion walking? He's prevaricating. He knows it.

“All right. Do it. Give it to him.”

Death nods her head sharply and Will doubles over, clenching at the sudden, wrenching pain that courses through him.

Hannibal splutters again. Chiyoh scrambles to him, clutching at grass and any solid rockl, to prevent a long, nasty slide. She looks sharply at Will, “What did you do?”

“A bargain. My life for his.”

Her eyes open wide, “Will! He won't thank you. Without you? He won't...”

He bows his head and pants a little, even not dying, it hurts to lose a life.

“You don't understand. It's okay. Really. Help me. We're not out of the woods, yet.”

He looks around, corrects himself, “We're not off the cliff face, yet. We've got to…come on. Better not fucking waste it. Not this late in the game.”

He’s not wild about his own use of ‘late’ in the circumstances.

Between the three of them, they somehow make it up the sharp, steep scrabble of the slope to the top of the bluff. Hannibal’s not-dead-weight carried and dragged between Chiyoh and Will. Soon, all of this will be lost to the sea. But not them. Not now.

At the top, they carefully lower Hannibal. Will looks over to the house, maybe thirty yards away. Stark against the possibility of dawn, just showing in the sky. He thinks about what they say. 'The darkest hour is just before the dawn’. It really isn't. Well. And it is. And who is this ‘they’?

“You did better than I thought. It's not too bad. I'll get the car. I've more supplies.”

She eyes him, “And some more clothes. You're shivering.”

“Yeah?”

He notes the cold then. The adrenaline has kept him going so far. But she's right. He's cold. He tries an experimental shiver. Death grins at him.

“Sorry. No hypothermia. Be seeing you.”

Will closes his eyes and slumps on the ground beside Hannibal. He's still grey and giving no sign of having benefitted from Will’s gesture. Still, when has he ever?

……………………

Death looks keenly at Hannibal, “You understand what he's done?”

“His last life?”

“His last life. Don't waste it, Hannibal”

“And if I don't? Waste it? When will we…?”

“We? Oh, you mean when will we meet again?”

Hannibal nods, “Yes.”

Death ducks his head, he's not really supposed to say.

“Well. Really?”

Hannibal waits, Death is ever an implacable foe to be chased off or a longed-for friend. He’ll either tell Hannibal or he won't.

“If you're careful? If you look out for him too? A while.”

“How long is a while?”

Death smiles, always cutting to the chase is Hannibal. In every way.

“How long would you like it to be?”

Hannibal coughs again, still a little blood in his saliva, but he opens his eyes, the veil thinning again. 

He rasps out, “Will?”

“God, Hannibal? Really? For fuck's sake. I tell you. This better be the last time. Really. Please.”

“It is. The last time. My life? It's yours.”

Will laughs, a desperate, relieved, strained, almost glad sound. Hannibal thinks he might spend the next however-long-a-while-is chasing the feel of that laugh. Just to hear it again.

“It worked then. Really. God. I thought...fuck.”

“You thought Death would be the end?”

“Yeah. This time. For both of us. For sure.”

“You saved us both.”

“After killing us both. And please don't say they're not so different. I happen to like being alive.”

He pauses. That's not exactly true. And lies aren't really any way to start a married life.

“Okay. That's not true at all. Being alive is pretty shit. But I'm also pretty sure it might be better. Could be better. Tell me again what you said before.”

Hannibal thinks back, in effect, in reality, that's already several lifetimes ago.

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us?”

“You crazy, terrible, awful, please, can we just... be a little...”

“Kinder? Gentler? Nicer? I'm not sure I'm those things Will.”

“No. No. I know that. Just. Together this time. Not against each other. No more pigtails.”

Hannibal frowns, “Never mind. Just.”

Will leans his head down against Hannibal's shoulder, no pressure there, just a connection. Like before.

“Bedelia said a lot of shit, but she said you were in love with me. Is that true? Or have I finally, totally fucked my shoulder for nothing?”

“Just your shoulder?”

“Shut up. I take it that's a yes then. So. Do you think you could possibly try to love me, for a bit at least, without the knives?”

“Without the knives?”

“Yeah. Please?”

It seems a relatively small ask as far as Hannibal is concerned. He'd more or less decided anyway. At least where Will is concerned. He hadn't especially enjoyed watching the Dragon stab Will, and not just because it wasn't him doing it.

“I can try.”

“Thank you.”

“And you?”

“Hannibal. I think I just gave you my last life. I'm trying here. All right. I'm really trying.”

“You married her.”

Will sighs, for gods sake! Really! He pulls of his wedding ring. He's about to throw it over the edge when instead he pushes it onto the smallest finger of Hannibal's hand, too small for the usual ring finger.

“I'll buy you a fucking proper one. Just...try not to die. All right. And stop looking so smug. Very funny.”

Pacified both by the gesture, and the intent behind it, Hannibal radiates pleased.

“My life is your life Will. It has been. For years now.”

Will looks up and sees the rake of car headlights wash over them. Chiyoh’s back.

“Yeah. I know. And yours is mine. All right. Your life is mine”

“Ours. Your life is ours.”

……………………….

Out above the bay, two Deaths become one. Usually that's something they say about lives. Upon a marriage. But Hannibal and Will have been dying together for years. Now? Perhaps they will live, and love, conjoined, as one, and if not in death, in one life. Finally. And actually. Not just metaphorically.

………………….

“You know. I'm still not sure if the encephalitis should have counted. I know we agreed, but... well…”

Hannibal's Death looks at Will’s, “Shhhh. I'm just enjoying a happy ending.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Not to worry. We won't see them again for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“How long would they like it to be, do you think?”

Will’s Death frowns, “Without the knives?”

“As you say.”

“A good while.”

Hannibal's Death nods again.

It is. A good while.

……………….


End file.
